Void
by Forrest-Hemlock
Summary: Story takes place after Mockingjay.  Tells story of how she and Peeta try to regain their past relationship as friends, or maybe even more.  Katniss seeks her purpose now that the rebellion is over. Rated T for future violence and action.
1. Cooking Class is Canceled

Various ingredients clutter the counter tops. Cooking utensils I've never seen before are neatly aligned beside the sink. Pots and pans and skillets are stacked precariously wherever there's room to spare. My kitchen looks like culinary heaven, although this stuff is alien to me. As I take in the scene, I lift the strap of my game bag over my head and hang it on the back of a dining chair. I rule out this being Greasy Sae's handiwork, since the variety of her cooking mostly requires a big pot for her stew, or occasionally a frying pan used for bacon or eggs. I thoughtfully run my hand over the handle of a wicked looking butcher's knife.

"Wash your hands," a voice catches me off guard, and I recoil my fingers as if the knife might detonate. I turn on Peeta, walking through the door with a sack of flour slung over his shoulder. He's really regained his strength since I'd last seen him. His hair has grown out, an unkempt wave of blond now drapes over his forehead to just beneath his brows. His pale blue eyes are tired, still withholding unpredictable intentions, but I catch a glimpse of the old Peeta every now and then. I feel my eyes becoming snared by his own, so I examine my fingernails, and even though they've been chewed to the quick on sleepless nights, a thin layer of dirt has accumulated underneath. "What's all this?" I ask, gesturing to the apparatus strewn around the room.

He sets the flour sack gently on the table, setting off a cloud of dust from the maltreated surface. I'd reassured Sae during her last visit a couple weeks ago that her services were no longer required, that I could fend for myself. Housekeeping hasn't been at the top of my priority list, apparently.

"I'm teaching you how to cook," he says.

"I know how to cook," I counter.

"Katniss, I think we can both agree your stew in the arena was substandard."

"I'm sorry, forgive me for not making a Capitol feast with our unlimited resources!" I cross my arms tightly over my chest. I'm not sure why I'm becoming so defensive, it was only an amicable joke. But it feels good.. I hope he snaps back.

"You're right. I'm sorry," he frowns, then turns his attention to scrubbing his hands in the sink. Of course he wouldn't retaliate. He's Peeta, at least for the moment. I neither accept nor decline his apology, and instead shove past him towards the stairs. He knows the root of my outburst runs deeper than his comment on my stew in the arena, which I myself will admit was hard to stomach. But I don't anticipate it when his hand catches mine.

"Wait, Katniss. Please," I don't dare look at his face as he speaks. I try to hold on to the trace of the old Peeta, the one before the rebellion, the one that held me through my nightmares and played with my hair on the rooftop of the Training Center, because I can hear him in this request. This alone is the only reason I don't pull my hand away, but as a natural reflex my entire arm stiffens with this effort. "Let go, Peeta," I say as forcefully as possible.

His grip flinches, as if it can't decide whether it should let go or hold tight. The strain in his fingers begins to alarm me, and I think he might be having a hijacking relapse. I turn to check for the look of desperate madness to sink in, his intelligent blue eyes to be overcome by the dilation of his pupils while he fights with himself not to strangle me. Instead, I find calm concern, but still traces of confusion. We're frozen like this, frozen while he examines every inch of my face. I hold my breath as I watch his gaze map out every feature of my face, every scar, every line. Soundlessly, he intertwines our fingers, and I let him. For so long I have resented him. Resented myself. But I let him pull me closer. We are silent as we face each other. I because I don't want to startle him, and he for whatever reason I can't decipher. What does he see? Jagged scars distorting my skin, patches of mismatched skin color? No, his eyes see deeper than my external. They probe my thoughts, my intentions, the questions I have for him, for myself. I fear my eyes may start to tear, if not from emotion then from my unwillingness to blink. I don't look away from his penetrating stare even as I catch a movement to my left, but I soon realize it's his thumb coming to brush my cheek. Now I close my eyes. Because I cannot bear the sight of his face anymore, and I can hardly withstand his gentle touch. I bite my lip and concentrate on my composure.

"Katniss," he whispers my name thoughtfully, mulling over each syllable.

"Yeah?"

He responds with the gentlest of kisses. His lips brush mine only briefly, and then they're gone before I have time to remember them. This is our first kiss since the raid of the Capitol, when he was slipping from me and I was desperate for anything that might help me keep him. I sharply exhale the breath I've been holding, only to gasp again. My eyes remain closed, and I try to recall the memory of our latest kiss. It no longer lingers, and I panic, afraid that it will be gone forever, and I'll never have the chance to touch him again. Just then, I feel his thumb slowly slide down my cheek and along my jawline toward my ear, and from there he cradles my neck in his hand.

"Katniss," he repeats quietly, this time with a sense of familiarity. He's not calling for my attention. He's trying to convince himself that he knows my mouth and taste. And suddenly his lips return, still timid, but curious. I return his kiss, ever so slightly, afraid to scare him away. We separate, but he doesn't remove his hand from my neck or release my hand. I open my eyes to meet his, and they offer a question. _Was it like this before? _I don't have a response, so I just lift my free hand to brush his hair from his face like I always used to. His muscles clench, the touch initiated by me unwelcome. He drops his hand from my neck and lets go of my hand. And just like that the real Peeta is gone again. I can't tell if we've made progress, or taken a step back.

"I have to go," he says, brushing past me and wincing as if the place we've just touched burns. I don't move. I only gaze over all the cooking equipment we never got to use.


	2. You Can't Run Forever

I realize how entirely worthless my existence is as I peel my face from the floor. The sun breaking through the cracks in the curtains and glaring at my face overpowers my sense of sight, so I can't quite get my bearings. I roll out of reach of the sunlight, and try again to obtain a sitting position. It seems I've spent the night and most of today curled up in a ball, hugging a spatula. I examine the rubber handle glued in my fist, the long steel neck leading to it's flat head. It takes a good ten seconds to pry my hand from the rubber, dropping the utensil and stretching my knuckles. My opposite hand gently soothes the stiff joints. I can't help but think how painfully wonderful my nightmare was last night.

I was back on the roof of the Training Center. The sun was setting, feathering Peeta's favorite color in tendrils through the sky. My head rested in his lap as he amused himself with my braid. I could feel the sun seeping into my pores, and for a moment I laid down the ringlet of flowers I'd been fiddling with to close my eyes and enjoy it. The hopelessness of our situation had weighed so inevitably on both of us, it eventually didn't even torment us anymore. We just enjoyed each other's company. I remember him asking me if he could freeze time, and keep this moment. Safe. Like we'd never be again. "Okay," is how I'd responded. Maybe he did save it. Maybe somewhere, deep in the darkest corners of his mind, out of the hijacking's reach, it remains.

I have to stop thinking about him. About what will never be again. Ever. My nails seek for something to dig themselves into, something to hold as an anchor. Instead they start ripping at my own flesh, and I think maybe if I can just tear through to the part that's infecting me, the source of all this agony, I can dissect it. This time there are no interferences. There's no morphling drip to douse my desire to self destruct. No doctors or psychiatrists to tell me what I'm doing is wrong. Though my nails are too marred to do any real damage, my eyes flicker to the assortment of knives still lined neatly along the sink. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury them in my fists. Dr. Aurelius said to contact him immediately if any thoughts of suicide returned, although surely he didn't expect me to uphold to that. Taking orders was never my forte. Instead I lay on my side once again, and trace the crevices in the oak wood floor.

I'm not sure how much time has passed when I hear a knock at the door. I don't answer it. Whoever it is lets themselves in anyway. I imitate being asleep, but perhaps I closer resemble being dead.

Someone nudges my leg with the toe of their boot, "You're not leaving this worthless world before me, sweetheart."

I make a feral noise in disagreement. Haymitch only chuckles. I hear the sloshing of liquid in a bottle, and my brain automatically identifies it as white liquor. And then it's splattering on my face, and I hiss in his general direction. My eyes anticipate the burn of alcohol, but it doesn't come. There's no smell either. I open my eyes and see that possibly the only human being on the planet that can survive on white liquor for his only sustenance, is holding a bottle of none other than water. As if to defy my assumptions further, he takes a long swig.

I don't feel like talking, and neither does he, so he just lets me silently cook us a dinner of roasted rabbit, some boiled cabbage and carrots, and a loaf of bread Peeta brought me. I don't know how to correctly season the meat, so some parts are salty while others are dry and chewy. The same for the boiled vegetables. I wish Peeta hadn't wrecked me further with that kiss, and actually just taught me how to prepare a meal. Haymitch politely finishes his plate, but doesn't sugarcoat his opinion. "That was awful."

"I know," I reply, and it's the first time I've spoken since he arrived.

"You should have dinner with Peeta some time."

I don't answer. I take his plate calmly, stack it on top of mine, and then slam them into the sink. I smolder as I turn on the faucet and watch particles of meat and vegetables swirl down the drain.

"Aw, come on. You can't be mad at him forever," I hear his voice behind me, and his tone strangely resembles something towards gentleness. This statement irks me. He makes it sound as if I'm holding a petty grudge. The truth of the matter is, I know I can't be mad at him. I have no right to. All along since we've returned to 12, Peeta has been the only one attempting to make amends. If I let him, he would probably gladly accept my friendship. But the underlying fact that friendship will never be enough hammers against my temples and I press my fingers to them in an attempt to subdue the ache. Then the pain is everywhere, corrupting my heart and stinging my eyes, and air is hard to come by. Something catches me before I fold in on myself. Haymitch's arms. I turn so I can wrap my arms around him as well, and then I just let the tears flow silently, occasionally hiccuping. I'm drooling all over his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind. He gently begins to pet my matted hair, and the first thing that occurs to me is that I haven't showered in a week at least. The second is his fatherly touch. I know he never had any children. But did he have a younger sibling? Someone to pacify whenever they felt like breaking down? It reminds me of the way Prim held me before the Quarter Quell, and the hole eating me from the inside leaches more of my energy. I consider asking about his family, but now hardly seems the time. Later, I decide.

"You should know I had a purpose for coming, besides your cooking," he says, drawing back so he can look at my face while keeping his hands on my shoulders. I wipe the tears with my sleeve, reconstructing my shell again. I nod for him to explain.

"Plutarch asked me to invite you to a feast in the Capitol. In person, seeing as how you refuse to answer your phone."

Nothing stirs inside me. No excitement or refusal, it just feels as though Haymitch hasn't gotten to the point yet. He frowns as he continues, "President Paylor will be there. Annie, Johanna, given she can survive the hours without a morphling drip. Possibly your mother, and Peeta..." He doesn't finish the guest list, I'm sure. There's one name I know he's reluctant to say.

"Gale," I finish.

"Yes. And Gale."

Painful. That's what this feast sounds like. So many people I haven't seen since the rebellion...President Paylor, the last I heard of her was when Haymitch told me she'd been hurriedly elected after I assassinated Coin. Annie I haven't seen since we voted on the Hunger Games using the Capitol's children. And after Finnick's death... Johanna, no contact from her that I know of, unless she called, but that I doubt. My mother's letter was the last I'd heard from her... And after what happened yesterday with Peeta, he's one of the last people I want to see too. And Gale... transferred to District 2 for military purposes. No. I won't go. From the look of Haymitch's expression, I must be openly expressing my opinion of this feast. I can think of a thousand ways to scream my defiance against Plutarch's invitation, but all I can derive from my vocal chords is "Are you and Peeta going?"

He shrugs, "Don't know about Peeta, haven't asked him yet. Although he does answer calls, so he might have been informed. I'd go if you did, because I don't think you'd last five minutes alone in that room with all of those people."

I nod. "I hope you haven't rented a tux, because I'm not going."

My response was obvious and he clearly saw it coming. His expression is indifferent as he turns to scoop up his bottle of water from the dining table and head for the door. As his free hand rests on the door knob, he doesn't look at me while he says, "Just remember, you can't run from them forever, Katniss."

I only muse over his words for the length of time it takes for the door to shut behind him before I know he's right. Like always.


End file.
